


At the Still Point of the Turning World

by voodoochild



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consent Play, F/M, Multi-Era, Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are very few reasons one should futz with past timelines and alternate universes. The Master demonstrates one of them while paying a visit to a Rani who is not quite yet the Rani.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Still Point of the Turning World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX and unfinished as of the time of the battle, for the prompt "Ainley!Master/Rani, parallel", and contains mindscrews both literal and figurative. The name of the Rani's TARDIS, Vayu, comes from a Hindu air deity, and the title and opening quote are from T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets".
> 
> Takes place in a universe where "End of Time" doesn't exist - because it was written before EOT aired - and goes universe-hopping a bit along the way. Chronologically, the Rani is still Ushas (in her first body) and then later, in her third; the Master has just dealt with "Trial of a Time Lord", but hasn't hit the Cheetah Planet and "Survival" yet; Romana is Lady President of Gallifrey, just at the start of the War. Consider yourself warned for timey-wimeyness.
> 
> Much love to carla_scribbles for the beta, the incessant cheerleading, and the responsibility for getting me obsessed with Eliot's "Four Quarters" as it relates to various renegade Time Lords.

_At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;  
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,  
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,  
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,  
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,  
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance._  
\- T.S. Eliot, "Four Quartets"

~*~*~*~

"You can't be here," a voice says from behind him. He turns away from the console he's not even pretending to inspect, because he's already quite well-acquainted with its workings. It had only taken him moments to acquire the information he'd needed; allowing the owner of this TARDIS to catch him is half curiosity and half the other part of his mission.

She looks the way he remembers her best, even now - black hair falling in curls to her waist, large dark eyes, olive skin - just barely out of her second century. She's not in Prydonian robes, it's about a decade or so too late for that, but the aesthetic in him approves of her black shirt, trousers, and boots, covered by a white lab coat. Red is lovely on her, of course, but she has a tendency to go more than a little exorbitant with the glitter.

He raises an eyebrow in a gesture shamelessly intended to irk her, because he's going to need her off balance. "Oh, can't I?"

Ushas - she's not the Rani yet, not quite - hurries over to him. If he were anyone else, she'd probably frog-march him to the nearest airlock and jettison it on principle (really, one shouldn't attempt to board her TARDIS when she doesn't wish it), but he's the one being in existence she might listen to _while_ she made for the airlock. She motions to the nearest hallway.

"No, you can't. You're in violation of at least sixty-eight different regulations. The Council would have your bollocks if they were aware. Not to mention I've already got one Koschei onboard. Two is a hideous thought, and don't think I don't know what's circulating in that asinine brain of yours. I can't have you breaking the Third Law of Time on my TARDIS, they'll never let me back on Gallifrey."

Oh, that's _adorable_. He'd forgotten about that half-century or so she'd spent desperate to return to her home and laboratory on Gallifrey after being exiled. Very few beings left in the universe can remember an Ushas who had groveled for Borusa every year and been told, time and again, that she had no right to ask, for renegades have no names and no legal status. Finally, she'd stopped hoping and started swearing vengeance. He can't say it isn't understandable of her . . . or supremely entertaining.

"But think of all the paradoxical theories you could prove or disprove if you let my younger self and I meet. Polonia's Sixth Constant doesn't intrigue you? Aque'ta's Diversity Principle?"

"Nice try, Koschei," she says, rolling her eyes, and oh, it's been almost a millennia since he's been called that. It's nearly pleasant to hear, coming from her.

He leans closer, purely out of an urge to needle her until her hands curl into fists (it's not as enticing in this body as it is in her third, all pale skin and ginger hair and prone to flushing pink in anger, but provoking the Rani is always an enjoyable pastime). Just as he's about to brush lips over her ear, footsteps ring out over the flagstone floor just outside the control room, and a _very_ familiar voice yells out "damn it, Ushas, where's my plasma disruptor?"

She opens the nearest door and shoulders him inside before he can do anything. It's a study, books and papers haphazardly stacked floor to ceiling. Controlled chaos, just like her. He's brushing the wrinkles out of his suit when the door buzzes and locks in her surprised hands.

"My dear girl, if you wanted privacy, all you needed do was ask."

Ushas slams a fist against the door frame, the thump absorbed by the shock-resistant paneling. "I didn't trigger the lock. My TARDIS did - apparently he's not in favor of you causing a paradox the size of Antares VII in my control room."

He folds his arms. "Are you informing me that we're stuck in here until that contrary piece of bolts you call a TARDIS decides I'm not going to cause a paradox?"

Her TARDIS's answer is quite rude, more or less the Gallifreyan equivalent of _"no shit, Sherlock"_. Vayu's always been a royal pain.

"And you don't have an override command?"

"I never expected to need one! I could have gone all my lives without having to implement a TARDIS override, but no, you had to transmat in and almost collide with your past self."

Well, that explained why she wasn't even more irate - she'd assumed he was a future Master from her own universe. She'd cause serious damage if she knew what her TARDIS had most likely figured out, that he was a Gallifreyan mind in a Trakenite body and not from this universe at all. There was a reason the High Council had reserved capital status for Level Nine and above paradoxes - the collision of the same being from different universes was explosive. Meeting your past or future selves couldn't be helped sometimes (and then there were those eccentrics like Braxiatel, who'd made an art out of profiting from it), but one generally didn't engineer the combination of an ontological paradox with the Third Law of Time.

Not that he's never had the itch to try. Just to prove he could.

But as long as he's here . . . "I suppose there's another possibility. We could pass the time in a much more stimulating fashion."

_Ouch._ It's been at least two and a half centuries, by his count, since one of her slaps has actually hurt, but it always stings at first. The flash in her eyes and spark in her psi-signature is still familiar as ever, though.

"I'd sooner bathe in engine coolant," she snipes, and while this body lacks the vocal dexterity of both her later incarnations, the disdain dripping from every word is identical.

He really can't fathom her taking offense like this. Even without the centuries of casual sexual encounters they've had in the span between her current incarnation and his, it hasn't been so long since the Academy. There's no way that after that time with Theta in Temporal Engineering Bay Gamma, she's even _capable_ of embarrassment.

He chuckles softly, reaching out with his mind to brush teasingly at hers. "I can assure you that you look just as enticing covered in engine coolant. Don't tell me you've forgotten the night of our Trans-dimensional Ethics final."

"What, you and Theta chucking an anti-grav well into Borusa's private bathroom? It was amusing, I'll grant you, but hardly arousing, or involving engine coolant."

What in Rassilon's name is she _on_ about? Anti-grav pranks? He and Theta had left that behind after second-decade. TDE was when they'd finally managed to nick enough accelerators, temporal regulators and biodamp coils to start implementation of Kasda molecules into the TARDIS they'd been creating. The TARDIS he'd designed, Ushas had grown, and Theta had programmed . . . and stolen. She's as likely to forget that betrayal as she is to sprout wings and a tail and enter the races on Soraias Prime. Did this universe diverge that early? Which begs the question -

"What happened to our TARDIS, then?"

"Don't be stupid," she says irritably. "We had nothing of the sort. _You_ were building one, you got caught, and you let Theta take the fall, as usual. Nothing ever came of it, and you both went on your merry troublemaking ways."

"I? Surely I couldn't design, grow, and program a TARDIS all by myself. I'm brilliant, Ushas, but there's no possible way I could have done that."

She crosses her arms and leans against a nearby black leather armchair. "You didn't. You hacked the Matrix, with my help, and - well, you know perfectly well what it did to you."

He actually doesn't and would really like to, but her suspicions are raised enough. Best to keep her off-balance.

"Of course. I'd hoped that you hadn't believed the lies the Council spread. And Theta, of course. He's still laboring under the delusion that the situation was all about him."

"Speaking of the Council, I suppose it's too much to hope that-" Ushas cuts herself off.

"That what?"

"That they - that the Council-" She stops again, and he really can't conceive of why she can't spit her question out. She turns away, and begins again, this time on a different line of questioning. "How far into my personal future are you from?"

Well clearly, he can't tell her exactly how far down the line, nor his precise genetic makeup. She's likely to get some sadistic impulse to take him apart and see how Trakenite physiology and Gallifreyan discipline interact.

"Rounding to the nearest century? Around eight hundred years. A good number of regenerations. Why?"

She turns back around, biting her lower lip - a habit that the Rani he knows has long since trained herself out of. "Now, in your timeline - do I ever . . . does the Council ever revoke my exile?"

He is one thousand, four hundred and seventy two years old. Nothing much surprises him any longer. Ushas, with her ice-queen shell of science and reason and well-hidden vestiges of vulnerability?

Every single time.

He almost wants to lie to her. He could, and it would not only be easy, it'd be smart. Put her in a better mood, spin a tale of redemption she's too young to know better than to believe, even coming from him. But it would be untrue, and if there's one being in all of time and space he tries to display complete honesty toward, it's Ushas. They can be bitter, spiteful, and petty with each other, ignore pain thresholds during sex, stab each other in the back with the slightest thought, but they are always honest. They do not betray the other's regard, not like other Time Lords they could name.

"No," he finally answers, and doesn't relish the way her face splinters into an expression of pain before she pulls her mask of superiority back on.

Her voice is tight as she looks up at him. "Are you certain?"

"Certain as I'm able. At this point in my personal timeline, you are still an exile, as am I. Last time we encountered one another, we got shitfaced on Alpha Centauri." At her quirked half-smile of amusement, he continues. "I'd just been dragged into a debacle involving multiple incarnations of Theta and the High Council, and you'd had a run-in with Daleks on Eisengaard you refused to give me the details of. We drank enough Sontaran brandy that night to drown the entire Citadel."

Ohh, that had been a good night. One hell of an encounter, not that most of his encounters with the Rani aren't memorable, but his back and his liver (he has one now, that's how Trakenites process alcohol) are still reminding him of it. He had welts from her nails for a good month. He hadn't been able to even _look_ at a decanter for at least two.

She draws in a sharp breath, and well, that's interesting. He realizes he's been unconsciously broadcasting, as this body is prone to do, with its lack of psionic barriers, and she's gotten a good look at some psychic afterimages. Mm, apparently he's not so abhorrent to consider in a sexual light after all.

"Stop that," she snaps.

"Stop what?" he asks, as innocently as he's able, boosting the connection so that she's getting a more direct mental stimulus.

"Stop broadcasting your sexual desire so loudly. I'm not interested."

She's a terrible liar, always has been, and especially now, when she's so young. Her hands may be clamped on the arm of the chair, in ostensible irritation, and her face may be set in a carefully crafted expression of distaste, but she's most definitely interested. Gallifreyan women have an unmistakable scent of arousal. He can't fault her too harshly; it's not something you're really aware of, or able to mask, until your second regeneration, when you gain more physiological control. But it's really useless of her to claim disaffection when she's giving off waves of pheromones.

He slowly walks toward her, eyes fixated on hers. "I do believe you're deluding yourself, my dear girl. Even if you weren't bleeding arousal from every pore right now, I'd know you want me. I always know - I do have a few centuries of acquaintance with the practice."

She tries for bored disdain, but her nails are making crescent-shaped rips in the leather. "In the practice of what? Overinflated ego-stroking?"

He focuses his mental energies on her, calling up the filthiest, most explicit memories he can unearth of them. She's so busy trying to shrug off the onslaught of psychic energy that he slips behind her and pulls her to his body, her back pressed to his front. His lips barely touch her ear, but he doesn't actually need to speak. She'd hear him no matter what.

"In making you scream and beg and lose every single shred of control you possess. I've had you every way I've ever wanted, and you've never fought it. You love it, being fucked hard enough to turn that magnificent brain of yours off."

The only sound she makes is a soft exhalation - not a cry, not yet, but it's the first spiderweb crack. He's got his way in, now, and softly, delicately, he layers a sensory aspect to the images. A hint of Telaxian gin on his tongue as he kisses her that time they got drunk on Navila during winter eclipse; the rasp of beard against her thighs as he goes down on her in his TARDIS med-bay after that time with the Clotharians; the times they discovered that he tastes differently in every regeneration and she never changes. Her shivers turn from fine to trembling, and he has to still her with the slide of his fingers up one arm. So light a touch, but it draws a bitten-off "oh" from her, along with a pronounced spike in arousal. And yet she still persists in remaining unmoving. The Ushas-from-his-universe would be rubbing against him like a cat in heat, and while he can't say he minds that type of reaction, this Ushas's deliberate refusal of her own desire intrigues him.

"So restrained," he says, breathing lightly against her earlobe and feeling her muscles tense. "I'd almost forgotten you were like this, once. A control to rival my own."

She laughs, one of the many things softer and more yielding about this body. "You? Control? You'd have to be in possession of something resembling an attention span, which, sadly, you wouldn't know if it performed a tango on your cerebral cortex."

Oh, now, that's just foolish; she couldn't have strengthened his resolve more if she'd outright dared him. He's going to unravel her from the inside out, and the only thing her baiting has done is decide exactly how slowly he's going to proceed. The idea of keeping his calm while she's climaxing hard enough to shatter glass is just intoxicating.

He thinks he's never relished a challenge more.

~*~*~*~

He steps away from her, rounding the armchair and seating himself in it. He turns it toward her, stifling a chuckle at the blatant surprise on her face. Good, keep her guessing - a complacent Ushas is the most dangerous kind. This one can't be too different.

"Giving up already?" she says, folding her arms. "I hope I haven't bruised your sensitive ego."

A soft laugh escapes him, and he looks her right in those wide, dark eyes. "Funny you should mention sensitivity. Did you know, my dear Ushas, that a Gallifreyan's first body - their original body - has an alarmingly high susceptibility to psychic suggestion?"

Her eyes narrow. "Of course I know that, you arrogant prig. It's due to the undeveloped mentathalomus gland. Regeneration triggers the omega psions, which charge the brain's defenses."

"Very good. Ever the biochemist."

"What has that- _oh_."

It takes her a moment to become aware of his mental direction, but once she's aware, it's like he's flipped a switch illuminating an entire labyrinth. She can feel every little tendril of suggestion he's woven into her mind, and even with her affinity for matters of the brain, she won't be able to tell how deep he's gone. She doesn't have a prayer of comprehending its complexity, much less extracting herself. It's with that realization that he feels the first cold wash of fear from her - and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a delicious feeling. She's clumsily trying to sever each point of contact she can find, and he sends a warning buzz of shock back through the connection at her. Clicking his tongue, he addresses her aloud.

"None of that, now. I've had a good nine centuries to practice. This connection dissolves when I say it does, and not a moment sooner. I'd rather not be forced into a messy display of mental dominance; it'd be pointless, and quite frankly humiliating for you."

Her hands have curled into fists, clenched tightly at her sides as if she'd like to launch herself at him in attack. "Bastard. I should have expected this. It's so very _you_."

He's honestly taken aback by her venom. He's almost certainly done worse to her than this, though nothing she didn't both invite and repay him in kind for. "What is it you imagine I'm about to do to you?"

An image unfurls in his mind with all the force of a cyclone: a bound, gagged, and clearly unconsenting Ushas, twisting on one of her own restraint tables; the cropped blond curls of his second self, green eyes narrowed in concentration. He can hear her screaming around the gag as this universe's Koschei peeled the layers of her mind one by one. Slowly, deliberately, as if he were browsing a textbook. Testing himself and his new body, just what his new omega psions and grey matter were capable of. The Master recoils - his stomach is actually tightening in nausea. He remembers this time in his lives, remembers developing the control over his mental abilities, remembers how his subjects had broken almost immediately at first. But he'd used the nameless, the faceless - Shobogan orphans and human stowaways and alien predators, working his way up to other Gallifreyans.

But not a Time Lady . . . not her.

Never on your friends, Theta had said, and the three of them had agreed. Ushas and her experiments in biochemistry and physiology, Koschei and his exploration of his mental abilities, and Theta and his obsession with machines and sentience - they'd sworn to leave each other out of their more questionable hobbies. One of the very few promises they'd all kept.

He reaches out tentatively, allowing her to sense his every movement, and does the psychic equivalent of brushing her cheek with his hand. His voice is soft, and devoid of any suggestion. "I cannot even begin to rectify a violation such as that. You have every reason in the universe to mistrust me, and I would scarcely blame you if you reset your TARDIS to expel any and all versions of me straight out into the Void. But I would very much like to offer you a choice: say the word, and I'll disengage my psychic influence. I shall stay in this chair and leave you to whatever you wish to do. Or, if you give me your free consent, I promise I'll have you screaming in pleasure without laying a finger on you in under two minutes."

She stares at him in disbelief, hands on her head as if to physically rip his influence out of her. The question that comes out of her mouth is much too broken, and it makes his hearts twinge.

"Why would you ever offer me a choice?"

His first impulse is to tell her the complete truth - that he is not, never was, and never will be the type of man who takes a Time Lady by force. It's one of Gallifrey's oldest taboos; only the weak commit rape, and no true Time Lord would ever resort to it. Every woman - or man, for that matter - that he's had has known his intentions and at the very least, given a measure of willing consent. And that makes him wonder - what, in Death's name, could have caused this Koschei to direct his power onto Ushas? Is this universe so divergent that the taboo doesn't exist? Or is it him that's been corrupted beyond almost all recognition?

What he does know is that this universe is already too coiled, scrabbling madly for purchase, like a primitive catapult. One more crack, and it will splinter off entirely.

"Age has its merits," he says, finally. "Even I can experience regret, and that act, my dear girl, is one thing I truly regret. You will always have been one of the very few beings in the cosmos that I would mourn the loss of. Allow me to make this small overture."

Ushas still looks suspicious, but he can feel her curiosity bleeding out - a scientist, through and through. _Is he truly sorry, or is this another of his manipulations? If I capitulate, exactly how much will this take from me? How much can I afford to lose? What would pure mental sensation feel like? Do omega psions have a scent? An image?_ The questions barrage him, but he does not influence her decision. This has already been decided, from the moment he'd accepted the mission. And even he knows how delicate a past imperfect splinter universe can be. This has to be her choice.

While she doesn't have much in the way of psychic abilities yet, she's always, from their very first week at the Academy when she called him out for using a linear buffer field during an Advanced Temporal Mathematics exam, been able to read him well. He sees her quiet study of him for what it is, and a small smile quirks at the corner of his mouth as he watches her watching him.

"Very well," she says, a little sharply. "Play your game with me, Koschei. But with one caveat - if I say 'Theta', you stop. Immediately. And if you don't, so help me, I'll dissect you piece by piece and throw you in a stasis unit before you can regenerate."

Funny she should mention stasis units. Ah well, he has to hand it to her, she's careful. "Safe words? Oh, my dear girl. We haven't used those since the Academy."

She's not amused, though. "Do we have an accord?"

"Yes, I believe we do." He sends a light pulse through the connection, just a playful swat, almost, to her prefrontal cortex. She shivers, and yes, this is going to be fun. "Let the lesson begin."

~*~*~*~

Hmmm, where to start? Playful and teasing, guaranteed to drive her straight up a wall, or targeted strikes, the precise frequency and strength needed to send her right to her peak born of centuries of practice? He knows all her buttons, the way she moans at an epsilon pattern sliding down her spine, the high, wordless cry she makes when he inverts the polarity of a few neurons and points them right at her cerebellum.

But he wants her to beg - Rassilon, does he want her to beg - and for that, he needs to start slowly. He begins by sending a soft throb through the connection, then doubling it. Like a heartsbeat - his heartsbeat, to be precise. Her breathing's picked up, and he adds the barest hint of his own anticipation to the mix. He can feel it hit her, feel her heartsbeat speed up in response. She makes a fumbling attempt at a return strike, but he doesn't give her the chance. He nudges at her cerebrum, tweaking her extra-spatial perception. Like twisting a dial. Her awareness of him almost quintuples, and her eyes roll back slightly trying to process.

It's a nasty little shock the first time, feeling everything that's going on in your body _and_ someone else's.

She can feel the press of his left foot against the wooden floor as he crosses his right leg. She can feel the bead of sweat trickling down past his hairline and into the collar of his shirt, as well as the way the leather of the chair is sticking to his hands. She can feel the spot on his right elbow that's been itching for the past few days, and the slight wheeze of his breath as the Trakenite body works to process the lighter Gallifreyan air of her TARDIS, and the muscles in his cheek stretching to arch his eyebrow at her. And, of course, she can feel the lust pooling in his groin, the counterpoint throb of his cock against the seam of his trousers.

"Oh, fuck," she breathes, hands fluttering in the air like she doesn't know what to do with them. "Bloody fucking arsehole of sodding Rassilon, you never - you never said - I didn't -"

Fortunately, he does speak unsettlingly-aroused, verbally-repetitive Ushas. "I thought it only fair to make you aware of the ricochet effect. I can feel what you're feeling, and you can feel what I'm feeling. Not technically a feedback loop, it's not malleable by anyone but the originating party, but it's a trifle difficult your first time. I can dial it back, if you like."

"Ohhh, how scrupulously fair of you. I can take whatever your warped brain can concoct."

Her breathing's picked up further, lovely shallow pants, and her pupils have dilated perfectly. He decides to ease her into the next step - it really wouldn't do to shock her into a coma or some other unresponsive state. He likes her responsiveness.

"I'm going to begin targeting your cerebral nerve clusters at point-three intensity. Low, but it will allow you the chance to become accustomed to the sensation before I direct it toward a more, shall we say, intimate part of your body."

"Why? I can't imagine a -_ah, fuck_ \- higher frequency would cause too much damage, considering you can - _ohhhh_ \- only operate within a .2 to .8 radius."

That's so very Ushas, unconcerned by the intricacies of mental precision and control. He goes for the demonstrative answer; a burst to her parietal nerve cluster at .3 intensity, immediately followed by a contrasting pulse of .7 intensity across her breasts. Apparently, the lesson is effective - her first moan just about started in her toes, her second crescendos into a near-wail. That's what you get with precision, and why he's so attached to his process. You never get the results you want with other people's methods. He could tell her to try Newtonian derivatives, like he's prone to, or the Fibonacci sequence, like Theta uses, but it doesn't mean she'd have any luck.

At any rate, .7 is an effective frequency. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself, nails digging into her upper arms. A commendable notion, displacement, but sadly, a futile one. He can - and currently is - just feedbacking the loop into her, enjoying the gasping cries torn from her mouth. Nudging at her boundaries is such a fun diversion.

"Look at me, Ushas - yes, that's it - you're exquisite, you know. That subtle rock of your hips where you're aching to be touched. I could just fuck you over and over like this. I know how badly you want it, but I want to hear you say it. I want to hear it in that desperate little voice you get when you're about to come. I've heard it so many times, oh, it's just intoxicating. I want to hear how desperate I've gotten you. Tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

She bites her lip again, but not before another desperately needy cry escapes. He ratchets up the frequency - .8 now, drawing quantum equations and the binomial theorem down her stomach, snaking over her hip, Xerxes' Constant pooling at the small of her back. Her cry reaches full volume - oh, so close, not yet a scream - head tilted back, hands fighting to stay on her arms, away from her tightened nipples. He's not immune, either; he itches to pull her against him, one hand cupping her breast, rolling the nipple between her fingers, the other hand unfastening her trousers and teasing at her cunt. Can almost feel what it would be like, through the feedback loop.

"_Rassilon_, you weren't lying - oh, please, just - I need - have to feel - ohh, fuck you, you bastard, you knew and I should have-" She cuts herself off with a frustrated growl, stumbling backwards until she leans against the bookcase. "Ohh, I want your hands on me, is that what you want to hear, you unmitigated cunttease? Want to ride your fingers and feel your mouth on my breasts, on my cunt. Want to - oh, fuck, fuck, just like that - want to fuck you as many times as I can, because you're him, but you're not. You're _you_ and I've always wanted you, even though you're out of your sodding mind and driving me right along with you."

Oh, she's such a delight when she breaks, so he'll overlook her aspersions on his sanity. He'd rather concentrate on the lovely picture she's presenting - long past the stage where her legs can hold her, she's flushed and moaning, her hands clamped on the ledge behind her, just utterly debauched. He estimates she's approximately fifteen seconds away from climaxing, and he wants to see just how easily he can push her over the edge.

"You do ask so very nicely," he says, dragging a .86 staccato burst directly over her clit. Ah, so that's her breaking point. Two minutes, sixteen seconds - oh dear, he's slipping. Usually, he can make her scream within a minute and forty seconds. "Come on, that's it. I want _him_ to hear you."

The feedback effect is almost the best part; he can feel - almost _see_ \- her synapses white out as she comes. She screams again for him, and he dials the connection back down to .2 intensity to give her a little respite. Of course, it's beneficial to him as well, he's been redirecting his desire back into her, so with her climax, it's hitting him almost too hard. It takes a little concentration to redirect the energy again.

Now, how to proceed? He'd like to think she's amenable to being fucked over the desk, but if there's one thing he's learned in all the centuries he's known her, it's that assumption only leads to a long night in restraints and a brassed-off Rani pumping him full of hormonal suppressants. Twice was enough - he's not that masochistic. But interestingly enough, he's not the one who ultimately decides.

A hand grips his hair and he looks up at her in surprise. While he's been pondering, she's regained higher brain function, stripped off her trousers, and set to work on his. Good girl, she's kept her lab coat and boots on; there are times he appreciates the way she thinks. She opens his trousers, and slides onto his lap, laughing at his audible gasp.

"You know, you never used to get this distracted. I don't think your younger self has heard me yet. Care to demonstrate some of that filth you were purring earlier?"

He'd love to.

~*~*~*~

His hands settle on her arse as she arches her back and uses the hand not steadying herself on his chest to guide his cock into her. It's the most ridiculous kind of cliche, but she's so, _so_ tight. If he didn't have specific memories of her loss of virginity (a project for Xenobiology, four or so decades into their Academy years — this ridiculous Mortelan ritual, not really entertaining enough to be worth all the chanting and ritual bathing, though he does remember fondly giving the proctor a minor heart attack at the sight of their position) he'd almost suspect that this was her first time.

That train of thought gets him a vicious squeeze of her cunt around him and a sharp tug on his hair. "Stop being a fucking simpleton and fuck me. I - _ah_ \- realize that your attention span has declined over the years, but I trust you _do_ still remember how to do this?"

"My apologies," he says, snapping his hips up sharply and spreading his fingers out possessively over her arse. "I thought you might need a moment. You are, after all, one climax ahead of me."

She rolls her eyes, gasping a little as another thrust hits her right where she likes it best. But now, it's a competition - a contest of oneupmanship. She tightens her hold on his hair and lowers her mouth to his neck. It's an understandable impulse; his second body was especially sensitive there. This current body? It's a mildly interesting diversion, but it doesn't do all that much for him. It only takes her a few seconds to figure out he's not susceptible to that mode of distraction, and she growls a little in frustration. She's almost cute like this - pouting because her usual procedure isn't working.

"Mm, I applaud your initiative, my dear, but you've forgotten first trimester Regen Theory: each new body comes with new omega psions, new nerve clusters, new hormones. And let me tell you, it's been quite a few bodies since a bite to the neck could turn my knees weak. Let's see, my third enjoyed breasts the most, my fourth and sixth both had a predilection for bondage, my tenth didn't even like women, and last time, it was oral sex. Do you think you can put that lovely brain to use-"

"Shut. Up." she growls, pressing her mouth to his in a messy, desperate kiss, and her teeth sink into his lower lip.

Oh, fuck. She's nailed it, and the low, needy groan that escapes him just confirms it. He'd discovered fairly soon after acquiring this body that it was wired to appreciate rough oral play. In signature Rani fashion, once she receives a result she likes, she sets her mind to duplicating it, again and again. She sets her teeth into his lip and tugs, laughing against his mouth, shuddering and shouting as he slides a hand between them to graze her clit and fucks her harder. Twists and rolls her hips, meeting every thrust and moaning when he eagerly licks his way into her mouth. She tastes faintly of caffeine supplements - such a vintage Ushas taste - and he loves the way she sparks in his head every time he flicks her clit on an upstroke.

He's managed to roll her shirt up, and has his other hand cupping one small breast (all right, they're not that small, but compared to her third body? Rassilon, what a rack) when he feels what amounts to a psychic click. Oh, the brilliant, sneaky bitch. She's figured out the mechanics of a rudimentary reverse-feedback loop, bolstering it with her own hormonal energy, instead of drawing from an outside source.

He's always said she was a genius.

But it's there and it's not. She doesn't have the control; one second he's getting the sharp burn of penetration, the way his/her fingers are flicking against her/his clit in tandem with her/his nipple, the delicious tug of her/his hand in his/her hair, her/his teeth biting and sucking at his/her lip . . . and then it shorts back out, leaving him almost reasonably sure whose limbs are whose once more. Quite disorienting for him, and probably almost an overload for her, so he pulls his hand away from her breast to press it to her cheek. Her "why-isn't-my-experiment-working?" look is familiar, as is the fucked-out haze to her eyes, though the combination is both unfamiliar and striking.

"Look at me," he snaps, and really, he needs to do something about that climax he's been staving off, because that startled, 'why are you _stopping_?' look is going to kill him. "You have to hold it. Keep hold of it, Ushas, just until you come."

She almost wails, slamming down vicious and sharp on his cock. "I can't. I don't - I can't hold it, Koschei, please, I just - I need to -"

"Shh, my girl. You can do it - you're so close, just a little more. Oh, yes, that's it, you worry about the loop. Good girl, redirect the neurons in a gamma spread, not too fast. Just concentrate, and leave your body to me, hmmm?"

The instruction goes completely counter to her nature, he knows, but she's so far out of her head right now that she actually obeys. His Rani would castrate him for taking liberties like this, but this version, he thinks, isn't quite so independent. He knows what his own psionic meddling looks like, the signature scars it leaves. It's a sobering thought, but his younger self in this universe has almost certainly done worse to her, without even a measure of consent. Not to mention an appalling lack of finesse.

He'd meant to make her hold the feedback loop until the moment she climaxed, which would have been delicious, but that's perhaps a tad too ambitious for an Academy graduate barely past a century and a half and still in her first body. Ah well, it's still going to be good. It only takes him a moment to isolate the path of origin of the feedback loop, and once he's located it, it's a simple matter to override her control. He toys with the idea of just letting it take its course, unchecked and almost certainly able to drive her right out of her mind, but she looks ready to pass out and so he deactivates it. Oh, much better - all limbs and sexual proclivities returned to their original owners.

On to the next order of business, namely that promised climax. Which - oh, sodding _hell_ \- is a bit more pressing than he'd thought. Now that he's acutely aware of which response is his, he can't help but focus on the overwhelming need to come, possibly _yesterday_. Every inch he sinks into and withdraws from her burns hotter and hotter, her voice cracking every time she raises onto her knees. Her clit feels so perfectly ripe in his fingers, almost too sensitive from where he's been rubbing and stroking her. His climax twists in his gut, seconds away from spilling out, and oh, he can't have that. She has to come soon, else she'll wind herself too tightly and he'll be right back where he started.

He slows his fingers on her, pressing hard and rough right below her clit like he knows she does when she frigs herself, and he sets his mouth to her ear.

"Come for me. With me. Now," he rasps and watches her climax with a look of surprise on her face mixed with, dare he say, affection. He follows her a heartsbeat later, and she falls against him, too tired to complain about the post-sex contact she usually wrinkles her nose at.

Nor can she complain about the phrase that escapes from his mind through the remnants of the connection.

_You are, and have always been, the one for/with whom I would have always stopped time._

It's an old honorific, reserved for those bonds which defy explanation. Not soul mate, nor family, or merely lover or friend or companion. Something beyond that, so powerful that a Time Lord can only utter - or even think - the phrase three times in his life. He's used two already, both on a typically-uncomprehending Theta, whose family doesn't go back far enough to remember that dialect of High Gallifreyan and who was always bollocks at poetic meter anyway.

But it tips her off - something is about to happen that she's not going to like. She knows he doesn't just drop endearments, even after sexual activity. Ushas groans, tries to protest as she feels him stroke her hair and slip the barest suggestion of sleep under her mental barriers, but it's too late, she's already passed out.

It's a fitting farewell. and it's what he stayed for.

~*~*~*~

After cleaning them both and fixing their clothing, he leaves the still-asleep Ushas curled up in the armchair. He tucks an errant curl behind her ear, and presses a kiss to her forehead. She'll wake in a few hours with very little idea of how she's gotten there, and all memories of this encounter buried behind the strongest barriers he can implement without her permission. The physical effects are the only unaccountabilities, and knowing her, she'll run the most thorough tests on herself she can devise. She'll find DNA matching a Time Lord called Koschei, and luckily, she happens to be traveling with one. Easy to reconcile with yet another bout of his mental instability.

It really wouldn't do to have her put the pieces together, though. She'd probably cause her own Level 9 paradox trying to get even, and her TARDIS hums in agreement. He may be an illegally souped-up temperamental Type 275 with an odd sense of humor, but Vayu is fiercely protective of his Time Lady. He and Koschei don't usually see eye to eye, but the Master supposes his strange biochemistry and time signature intrigues Vayu enough to overlook the Master's mistreatment of his person. Curious to a fault, just like his owner.

A mirror slides out of the wood paneling as the Master stops to fix his clothing and hair. He hums his thanks to Vayu, smoothing his hair back into place and re-knotting his tie. The vest is a complete disaster, missing a button and sporting a large rip in the velvet. Shame, he'd rather liked this suit.

He exits the study, setting off to find his younger counterpart. It's hardly taxing - even without Vayu's mental diagram, he could hardly miss the rhythmic pounding at the base of his skull. Involuntary proximity alert; it's not just against the Laws of Time for the same being from two universes to meet, it should be a physical impossibility. His cerebellum is lighting up, flashes of blinding light coming faster the closer he gets to where he eventually finds himself: the aft engine room, halfway under a console and singing along to some appallingly cheerful Earth pop music.

_"With a record collection and the mirror's affection, I've been-"_

The hyperdimensional stasis chamber snaps around him and mercifully cuts off both the song and the pounding in the Master's head. His younger self, frozen into place, glares in mixed recognition, shock, anger, and confusion. He can't move or speak, not in a stasis state, but he can still hear.

"My apologies, self, but this really is in our best interests."

Patting the TARDIS's wall in farewell - Vayu wishes him a swift and painful trip, in signature fashion - the Master activates the intradimensional transmat beacon set into his ring, and approximately three seconds later, blinks into existence in the center of the High Council chambers. Home sweet universe. He turns to the first chair.

"Mission accomplished, my Lady President."

Romana raises an eyebrow at him and rises in a sweep of white robes. "We shall see, Master. You certainly took enough of a detour getting to him."

"Necessary diversion, I'm afraid. The timeline is very specific - that Koschei travels with that Ushas until galactic stardate 2,600, 274.1. It was ten till midnight when I arrived. Apparently your transmat team can't get exact time-stamps correct."

She purses her lips, but ignores him and turns to one of her advisors. "Trellis, have the guards bring our other guest up. I'd like to be sure the younger incarnation of the Master is still exploitable."

"I'm not sure I agree with your use of the word 'exploit'," he says, letting slip some of his annoyance. "I don't enjoy being used, Madame President, surely you know that."

"The rest of you, please leave us," she says to the Council. Flavia stares as she passes him - really now, that little crush of hers is beginning to get noticeable - and the rest exit. Braxiatel, unsurprisingly, lingers by Romana to murmur a warning into her ear before exiting the chamber. She turns back to the Master with a little more steel in her gaze. "And I'll have you know that I'll call it whatever I like. Make no mistake - you _are_ being exploited by this office. Exploitation, however willing, in whatever cause, is still exploitation. Don't delude yourself about that."

She's young - the youngest President in three millennia - but he can see why she's going to become President. The Doctor's taught her well, with Cardinal Braxiatel and her own indomitable nature taking care of the rest. It's a shame she's so scrupulously noble; she's beautiful and intelligent enough to be more than a match for him. Not to mention susceptible to the right type of influence, although he suspects Braxiatel might take his head off if he made the attempt. The good Cardinal always was protective of his interests.

"No delusion at all," he says, meeting her gaze. "This was a mission I was duty-bound to carry out, as a loyal servant of the Council. And it isn't as if I'm getting nothing out of the arrangement."

Romana rolls her eyes, and tugs the sleeves of her robe down over her fingers. "Just another set of regenerations. You know, I do believe you're up to 39 possible lifetimes. Don't you think that's patently ridiculous?"

"You are aware that 'patently ridiculous' is practically his signature, my Lady President?"

It's her - his Rani. Well, not his possession, not if he wants to keep all of his organs in their current positions and in working order, but the incarnation of her he knows best. Sharp features, blue eyes, ginger hair, the penchant for unwieldy jewelry and stiletto boots. Her voice is the same, husky and dripping sarcasm and insults - but as he turns around to look at the doorway, something is off about her. She feels oddly hollow inside his head, like she's exhausted, which is absurd.

Time Lords don't get tired.

The observation is backed up by his first view of her. She's wearing Gallifreyan robes and a strange sort of necklace, and that's utterly wrong. She would never willingly put on traditional robes again, even if she were restored to non-renegade status. She'd swallow Melvaran mud fleas first. He attempts to probe into her mind, and is rebuffed by a slam of mental barriers so strong he swears he can actually hear them clang.

There are so many questions he wants to ask her, but knows she'd answer none of them, even if Romana weren't standing right there. And the Council guards are giving him more-suspicious-than-usual glares, so he simply draws himself to his full height and gives Romana a deep, formal bow.

"I won't overstay my welcome, then. Farewell, my Lady President - I look forward to when our timelines converge again." He reaches out and takes the Rani's hand before she can protest, and raises it for a kiss. "Lovely, as always, to see you, my dear."

If he notices the catch in her breath, the way her throat has seized up in the way that, on anyone else, would signal a desire to cry out, he keeps it to himself. He knows, after all, that this is the last time they'll ever meet, these versions of them from this universe. Knows that he'll go through two more bodies before he sees her again, before the events of the War Romana has assured him is happening and will happen occur. He can't see anything past then.

As he trans-mats back to his own TARDIS, his own timeline, he thinks he can hear war drums.


End file.
